


He's the Man

by Wifine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Shakespeare Quotations, Theatre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wifine/pseuds/Wifine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland, closet theatre geek, finally gets the role of his dreams - but not without a little bit of drama.<br/>// High School Theatre AU. FrUK with hints of USUK and Frain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I, Scene I

**Author's Note:**

> “Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.” -Shakespeare, The Twelfth Night

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ARTHUR KIRKLAND. 

FRANCIS BONNEFOY. 

RODERICH EDELSTEIN, _stage manager and student director of the play._

ANTONIO CARRIEDO, _Francis’ best friend._

ALFRED F. JONES, _Arthur’s previous crush._

CAST _of students spanning all ages in high school._

\----------------------------------------------------

 

** | ACT I, SCENE 1: Backstage. |  **

_Enter_ ARTHUR _._

A dim light peeked through the door crack. A small flashlight, accenting floor’s thin shaft of gold, lay useless on the floor. A boy shook his short pale tresses. Thick eyebrows furrowed. Spindly fingers gripping the book once more, the scrawny student shouted to the empty room: 

 

_“Jove knows I love:_

_But who?_

_Lips, do not move;_

_No man must know.”_

 

He paced back and forth, agitated at his unknown audience. “‘No man must know?” he cried, throwing the book down. “What follows?” He wrung his hands in the air, re-examining the book before him. And then -

“Ah.” He leant down towards an eager listener, and said excitedly, “The numbers altered!” He leant down even further. Smiled. Looked into everyone’s eyes around him. Pressing a bony finger to his lips, he whispered: “Shhh. _No man must know._ ”  

\--//--

On the opposite side of the room, another student furtively snuck through the back door.  He tiptoed over to the nearest chair, careful not to disturb loverboy standing before him; it would only spell out disaster if he did. He gingerly shifted his scarf over his shoulder. Lowered himself down to his seat with utmost care. Winced at the agonising _creaaak_ that soon followed-- and perked up in alarm. Held his breath. Then, seeing the actor too preoccupied with his own antics, let out a sigh of relief. Comfortable at last, he finally rested his head against his hand; locks of gold gently tumbled down his face. This was, by far, his favourite part of Drama: watching _him_ work.

 

_“I command where I adore;_

_But silence, like a Lucrece knife,_

_with bloodless stroke my heart doth gore--”_

 

By now, the book shuffled around at the first boy’s feet. Subconsciously kicking it out of the way, the manuscript forlornly joined its place alongside the unused flashlight. 

“M, O, A, I, I doth sway my life,” he swooned. 

“Excellent wench, say I,” the watcher muttered under his breath. 

“Nay, but first, let me see, let me s--”

A clatter. The scrawny student spun around immediately, pupils dilating in the darkness. He fell to his knees and scrabbled for the flashlight. Confidence effectively vanished in the dark, he managed, “Wh-Who’s there?” 

_Mon Dieu._ The watcher carded back his hair, frustrated with himself. He had done it _again_ \- subconsciously recited the script. Couldn’t simply sit and _enjoy_ the show right before him. With a heavy sigh, he noisily scraped his chair against the floor and put his hands up. 

“It is we. The ghosts of theatre past, present and future. We are here to tell you of the wrongs you have committed and--” 

“Cut the crap, _Francis_.” The scrawny boy gritted his teeth. “What the bloody hell are _you_ doing here?” 

Francis blinked. “What do you mean? I was _watching_ you, of course.” 

The other’s eyebrows knitted together in nervous agitation. “You’re just here to tease me about my stage fright, aren’t you? You promised you wouldn’t bother me again!” 

“You know all too well how I keep my promises, _mon lapin,”_ Francis chuckled. “Besides, that was a stunning interpretation of Malvolio.” 

Francis could almost see Arthur rolling his eyes in the dark, despite the faint pink blooming on his ears. 

“Keep up with the compliments like this and you’ll be able to woo the Devil himself,” Arthur mumbled. His shoes scuffled against the floor as he gathered his things. “And to the devil I go - I’ll never be able to practice here with this _distraction_ around.” 

“Looks like I’ll have to woo the Devil soon, then,” he teased. He nudged Arthur’s side and winked. “If I haven’t already, that is.” 

“The devil with you!” Arthur snorted, conveniently swinging his own book bag in Francis’ direction. Francis, in turn, expertly dodged.

“And a sweet devil you make, too,” the Frenchman crooned, tousling Arthur’s short locks. 

The Brit scowled. “Don’t touch me, you - you -” 

“Me what?”  

“You-- you _devil_ , you!” 

Quickly coloring beet-red, he slammed the door in Francis’ face for effect. Startled, Francis just managed to see Arthur marching haughtily around the corner after he regained enough sense to open the door again. What a devil of a kid; a real pain in the arse! 

_But still a good pain in the arse, I guess,_ Francis mused to himself. He gently closed the door behind him as he closed his own eyes to relish the moment. Arthur’s acting was, in a word, brilliant. The young boy had always had an interest for theatre ever since he was little; Francis had caught him more times than one copying his own movements.His lips twitched into a smile. Even though, of course, Francis had always been considerably better than him.

_At least Arthur never stopped trying_. The Frenchman reached down for the bag leaning against his chair, when he came across the dogeared manuscript Arthur kicked away. As his hands flipped it open, his eyes widened. Furtive notes were scribbled all over the printed text; highlighted words, corrections, and even poetic analyses decorated themselves across the page. 

Out of curiosity, Francis read aloud a rewritten passage to himself. He listened to the iambic pentameter beat against his voice; the flow of the words sounded even better than those of Shakespeare himself. He closed his eyes, reveling in the rhythm. There was only one word capable of describing this sensation:  

_Genius_. 

Tracing an elegant finger over the chickenscratch, Francis’ smile grew even wider.

_Perhaps... just perhaps, all this talent doesn’t have to go to waste._

  

_Exit_ FRANCIS.

 


	2. Act I, Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets a role, but he didn't ask for this much drama.

** | ACT I, SCENE 2: In the green room. | **

 

_Enter_ FRANCIS, ARTHUR, RODERICH, and CAST.

 

“You all must be wondering why I gathered you here today,” a slim brunet announced. He folded his gloved hands on his lap as the murmuring crowd shushed each other in the pit. He cast down his vaguely purple eyes before he continued - “As most of you may already know... someone among you is absent.” 

A grim silence swallowed the room. Francis’ palms suddenly went damp with sweat; memories of the past few months flashed across his eyes. A sweet Southern tinge - locks of gold - soft cerulean eyes. All not here. Panic starting to creep up at his throat, the words constricting themselves. It couldn’t be, it would _ruin_ the production, not the lovely - 

“Amelia. What happened to her?” 

Francis whipped around to locate the source of the voice. A stupid thing to do, really; he could recognize that drawl anywhere. Two eyebrows-- much too large for any high school student, let alone any person-- framed the already too-wide eyes of the speaker. As they grew wider still, Francis watched with disgust. The student’s hands started to tremble; whether it was panic or pleasure though, Francis couldn’t tell. But it’s not like it mattered. Arthur was finally going to get the role he wanted - because Amelia wasn’t here. Because Amelia was sick. Because Amelia was hospitalized, _Arthur Kirkland,_ easily the biggest _nerd_ in school, was getting excited to finally get his _own_ chance on stage - and thought nothing more of the person he was to replace. 

That _bastard_.

Roderich grimaced, giving a slight nod. “It’s my displeasure to tell you that our lead is currently undergoing hospital treatment. She... unfortunately was caught up in automobile accident.” 

The room gave a collective gasp. Arthur’s eyes almost bugged out of his head -- at this rate, Francis swore he could just give Arthur a slight squeeze and they would roll out onto the floor -- but the British boy still did not offer a word. His already pasty face went white as a sheet. Francis’ mouth started to visibly curl out of disgust, when suddenly - 

The dark room. The dull hum of the heater. The incessant practicing, the chant-like repetition of words, the dogeared pages, scribbled with notes and highlighted words - 

_No man must know._

Francis smirked. 

_There are better ways of conducting revenge._  

Walking up to Roderich’s seat on stage, he exclaimed, “ _He_ has all the lines down. _I’ve_ seen him practice.” He waved his hand, generously gesturing towards Arthur - almost as if he was waving all of Amelia’s responsibility onto Arthur’s bony shoulders - and grinned. He continued, “ _He,_ of all people, can take Amelia’s role.” 

His steady gaze watched Arthur flush with colour. There was no way the boy could admit that he had stage fright - not when the whole cast was watching - not when the spotlight was on him. As Arthur struggled for an answer, Francis amusedly watched the boy silently glared at Francis all the while. Francis threw a simpering smile back. 

_Yes, definitely better._

“I _insist_.” 

The room, previously tense with sheer silence, explodes in an uproar. _Arthur Kirkland_ , loser of the century, taking over the lead role of the school’s one and only _beauty queen_? Recommended, nonetheless, by _Francis_ , _star of the show_? _Impossible_. _Unspeakable. Absolutely unheard of._

Arthur stares down at his shoes, face now a ruddy crimson with embarrassment. Meanwhile, Roderich mulls over the situation. There were no substitutes; indeed, he had barely made the cast requirements in their vastly uncultured school. Besides, all the initial cutoffs (or rather, cut _off_ , since Arthur was the only one), simply did not possess the _aura_ to be on stage. There was nothing particularly outstanding about him. Arthur stutters; he shivers; he sweats. If anything, Arthur had looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die onstage. _Stage fright_ , Roderich had mused - he wondered why the boy had even tried out in the first place. 

But then again, this _would_ be the school’s last production if they did not do anything about it. Simply put, the Drama department had not been particularly popular in previous years. The low turnout of auditioners was proof enough. It simply could not do if the play went on without such an important role; it needed as much support as it could get. After all, Roderich hoped, the Drama department would be able to stay alive with his new cast of dazzling sophomores-- they had all shown promise. He recognized their flair from the start. If only... if only he could convince the school board. If only he could win them over with this play. If only his leads, Francis and Amelia, could regain - 

Oh, right. 

_Amelia._

He groans. 

_What other choice does he have?_

Sighing audibly, Roderich rubs his pinkies to his temples. The conundrum couldn’t be helped, after all. Waving one hand at his rowdy students to silence them, he dramatically clears his throat. As the audience holds its breath, his mind races one last time. Francis and Arthur - a dynamic, mutually explosive relationship - piano and forte, loser and star, hate and hate. How much worse could it get? 

Not much worse, he decides. After the near-suffocating silence, he finally _, finally_ declares:

“Let’s give him a shot.” 

Arthur stares. Francis smirks. The crowd goes wild. 

Revenge has never tasted so sweet. 

 

_Exeunt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n; i wanted to touch upon the love-hate relaysh between the two of them; not so sure if i pulled it off well enough, though. :S ah, well, that's what the next couple of chapters are for, yea?


	3. Act I, Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter, ALFRED.

** | ACT I, SCENE 3: On stage. | **

 

_Enter_ ARTHUR, FRANCIS, RODERICH, _and_ ALFRED.

 

Arthur _swears to God_ that he will _kill_ that bastard one day.  

Today had been particularly terrifying practice. He had always hated performing in others already; however, after going over the lines twenty more times the night before, he was so sure he would be able to do better today. He was so sure he could make it through the scene without stuttering. He was so sure he wouldn’t disappoint his peers again, when - 

A sweet tinge of condiments; locks of gold; soft cerulean eyes. 

_Alfred_. 

Colour immediately rose to his cheeks. Arthur withered away internally; he could already feel the words start to sour in his mouth. But it was not like Alfred was paying attention or anything. The boy looked more captivated with the person he was talking to than anything else. It was just that it was-- it was-- it was _Alfred_. Amelia’s fraternal twin. Arthur’s once unrequited love.

(It was not like they had gone out or anything; in spite of all the murmured misunderstandings and awkward confessions, Arthur just... couldn’t quite meet the younger boy’s eyes. Not after finding out that Al had been already dating a girl. Not after finding out that the confession scene had been recorded. Not after finding out, much to both boys’ embarrassment, the scene had been uploaded online - and viewed by half the school the very next day.)

(They had avoided each other after that.) 

Digging his nails into his sweating palms, Arthur’s eyes frantically darted around to find the culprit. There shouldn’t be any real reason for Alfred to have visited the auditorium; heck, the guy didn’t even _like_ theatre. There has got to be a cause for this. There was no reason why Alfred would just saunter in for the fun of - 

Then, it hits him: _Francis._

Eyes tearing through the room, he soon targets the culprit joking around with Al himself. His jade eyes narrowed. 

_He should have known._

_This_ was the man who had uploaded the video online. _This_ was the man who singlehandedly crushed his social life. And _this_ was the man who, no matter how hard Arthur tried, had outshined him in the world of acting, the one true place Arthur really felt he belonged.

His already-white knuckles goes even whiter. Never mind trying to kill the bastard with his own hands; eternal damnation would suit him better. 

God _damn_ him. 

Before Arthur could fly down the steps to condemn Francis to a new level of Hell, however, Roderich raps his own knuckles sharply against the podium. 

“Act III, Scene 1” he calls in his slightly nasal tone. “Olivia’s garden. Set - ready? Clown? Viola? Okay, let’s take this from the top!” 

As the Arthur shuffles towards center stage, he tastes bile. It seems like everything was against him today, he silently despaired. The cast’s disappointment -- Al’s judging eyes -- and _shit_ , he thought as he double-checked the script, all his lines were _today_. Why, oh _why_ did he even think of taking Drama in the first place?

Oh, wait. Right. Because certain _bastard_ volunteered him to it.  

As he tries his best to focus on the script, the words tumble messily out of his mouth. He shudders; it’ll be okay, he tells himself, so long that Alfred doesn’t actually notice what’s going on onstage. It’ll be okay so long that he stays preoccupied. It’ll be okay.

And just when it couldn’t get any worse, their eyes lock one-on-one.

And in one, sweeping look, what little dignity that is left of him crumbles. Alfred’s soft blues harden into confusion; they fix themselves on the flushed, sweating, absolutely _disgusting_ Arthur on stage, judging - oh, Arthur _knows_ he’s judging - the one who just couldn’t keep his own dick in check back in middle school. To add insult to injury, a warm wetness surrounds his legs - God, not _now_ , not when his _ex-crush_ is watching - but the urine leaks anyways, creating a small wet spot in his trousers. And _just_ when he desperately hopes no one will notice, he hears it: Francis’ smothered peal of laughter. 

It’s all Arthur could do to keep from bursting to tears. 

After the long pause, Roderich glances up from his script, waiting for Arthur’s response. Mistaking the tears and gritted teeth for rebellion, he sighs dramatically and crosses his arms. 

“Don’t just stand there like an idiot. _Repeat_ after me _. ‘And he is yours, and his needs be yours...”_

Arthur can’t take it anymore. He _has_ to interrupt him. He has to make a getaway scene. So of course, as if he couldn’t draw even more attention to himself, he impulsively shouts: 

“Pray you, sir. Do _you_ know of this matter?” 

Roderich stumbles, startled at the interruption. “W-what?” 

Arthur wheels around to face Roderich - no use trying to avoid him now - emerald eyes cold as steel. 

“I beseech you - what manner of man is _he?”_ He jabs at Francis’ direction accusingly, calling out the offender for all to hear. “I have seen naught of this man in my life - who is _he_ to plague _me_ now?”

As Roderich starts to bluster a reply, Francis sits up a little straighter. He pushes the American’s whines for hamburgers aside - the kid already has a lifetime supply of meat, anyways - when a grin starts to spread from ear to ear. 

_The genius is back._

Jumping up from his seat, Francis heartlessly abandons Alfred. Chest out, he exaggeratedly struts to the stage, shouting back: “He is, indeed, sir, the most skillful, bloody and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria.” 

Arthur’s eyes flash dangerously at him, warning him not to take a step closer. Francis grins. Like he ever listened to the Brit. Climbing over the stage, he sticks out a hand to Arthur. “Will you walk towards him?”

Arthur throws him a murderous look - poignant enough to kill a small rodent. Francis Bonnefoy, though - the ever daring, ever beautiful, ever _stupid_ \- only steps closer. 

Arthur tenses. In an alternate universe, he would have already throttled him. But this is school; and according to school rules, such a desirable action would demand a suspension. And as much as he would like to choke the living breath out of Francis Bonnefoy, he more definitely does not want to give Francis the pleasure of seeing him with a blemish on his permanent record. _Definitely_ not. 

Just as he turns the matter over in his head, though, Francis swiftly leans down to the shell of Arthur’s ear - just as he had leaned down to touch those pages of genius earlier - and the subtle scent of cologne fills Arthur’s nose. He sinks into a small reverie. The scent was different from his own, he thinks dimly. A touch of some French product, mixed in with the scent of Arthur’s previous cologne - how does he even have it? - when Francis, lover extraordinaire, _chomps down_ on Arthur’s ear. 

Arthur snaps out of it. 

As he winces - of pain, embarrassment, and wetness - Francis rests his weight on the balls of his feet. He grins devilishly and recites: “ _I_ will make your peace with _him_ if I can.” 

Arthur splutters. Disgusted at his momentary relapse (and how physically close Francis suddenly was - what, did he want to _kiss_ him or something?), Arthur unabashedly rejects him. 

“To hell with you! I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one that / had rather go with sir priest than sir knight.” 

He glares at him - less strongly this time, viridian still glazed over with the ghost of confusion - as he stamps his foot angrily. He adds, “ _I_ care not who knows so much of my mettle. And,” Arthur improvises, throwing daggers into Francis’ face once more, “ _I_ care not for _you_.” 

With that, the angry blond storms out backstage, refusing to glance back at the chaos he created. If only he had, though; perhaps then he could have gloated at Roderich’s gape; the cast’s awestruck silence; Francis’ flicker of guilt. And perhaps, along with all this, he might have heard the lone source applause in the audience - reeking of burgers and meat - shouting repeatedly, over and over again:

“Bravo! Bravo!” 

 

_Exeunt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n; i guess it's weird how these are all uploaded at the same time, but i erm. forgot about my ao3 account until now. so here are three chapters so far, i guess...?  
> thank you for reading up to here so far uvu i am greatly indebted to you!


End file.
